


Building an arch of Triumph

by Somecallmemichelle



Category: Punch-Out!! (Video Games), Starbomb (Band)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-15
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-17 15:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9330938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somecallmemichelle/pseuds/Somecallmemichelle
Summary: A prequel to the starbomb song (with way less profanity), Glass Joe feels he wants more...like a victory once in a while...like a princess or some crap like that. Glass Joe lives his life in that little french coffee house, and wants to fight for France.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This should have been posted on the 25th of December, gosh diddly darn it! A present for fellow Starbomb fan, PugMaster.

They thought he didn’t hear them. Yet he clearly did. “Glass joe? More like Glass Joke” that was one that repeated often, “the feather”, or “good at being knocked out”.   
  
Which, Glass Joe guessed was true, in all of his his seven, and he counted, seven years fighting, in all his training where he ran anywhere from a couple feet to a 100 yards, and anywhere from running for 50 minutes (well, which was like what? 700 meters?), he had sort of lost focus of himself.   
  
Glass Joe, the weak jawed french, was many a thing…But he wasn’t good on the ring. Oh he was good in a lot of places, like giving the confidence to fallen stars, so that they didn’t burn into the realm of forgetness (or the realm of being forgotten, Glass Joe was a french, not a briton), good at flying into the ropes, and feeling them, as if they scorched his back. Good at telegraphing his moves, telling his opponent just what he was about to do, leading to an easy evasion.   
  
But that was paid out to do...after all, he was Glass Joe, the first contenter. Every league needed a joke and the World Video Boxing Association was, in no way different. It had started out as a gimmick, a joke really, the heavies fight the smalls. No restrictions based on weight. And the deal had been simple. He was to lose most matches.   
  
Sure, 99 loses to 1 was overkill, and perhaps some of those loses he hadn’t even tried to fight, knowing what was expected to do. But it only made it all the more interesting when he stepped into the ring. He knew that when he did so he was about to get his face pummeled out. But it was all worth it for the cheer of the fans. The screams of delight, and the “ooohs” and “aahs”, as he was hit.   
  
“The usual?” - The lady at the countered asked. If it had been another time perhaps Glass Joe would have stayed and chatted for a bit, make small idle talk, he liked to stand there, and just speak with Marie. This slice of his home country, with the little Arch of Triumph in the wall, it made him yearn for the country he had gone out of as a little child.   
  
He barely ever spoke french , not many chances for that in Brooklyn, but this little piece of home, this little café was like a reminder of what he had left behind.

  
“Oui.” - Marie grimaced in sympathy at the many shades of purple his face was getting. He had barely pushed his wrists up to his head, to block blows. The victory came natural, and expected. Nobody ever bet on him anymore. Picking up the sack of ice and his coffee, a paradoxical combination of hot and cold, he went to sit down.

  
“And yet…” - Ressenting himself to the english language, even while amongst his peers, he sighed. - “If I could only win…”

 

After all, he had jogged all of 5 feet from the entrance to the counter, and, of course, there was the fact that though his limbs were not defined, lacking any sort of substance of muscle, or fat, really, being just little noodles, he had the tall and proud frame of a boxer.    
  
Height wasn’t everything in the sport, well just last week, an elf, a barely shaving age kid had hit him with all he had got. Those blows had hurt.

  
Pulling up a couple dollars as a tip. - Something he had gotten from his last few performances. - He appreciated the deep and dandy smell of the coffee, the bitterness and heat waking up parts of him that were sore from the fight.   
  
“Like a hipster, I think.” - Bold, brave lion hearted Glass Joe pushed  the ice against his face, grimacing as the cold plastic made contact with his bruises. It hurt, but not as deep as his pride, and his wounds.   
  
He didn’t put cream in his coffee, he liked it bitter, but, as he finished it, he couldn’t help but think about another kind of cream, the cream de la crème, the best at something. Though that kid who had pummeled him last week almost back in time had come close to earning the title, Sandman still remained the champion. Size didn’t matter, but brute strength did. In this, the sport of fists.

 

If only he could beat Sandman...then he’d get the respect he deserved...there wasn’t really a chance of try climbing up the ranks, not when he was part of them. But he could issue a public challenge. A challenge that Sandman might very well take as an easy victory. Like hitting an incapacitated person. Too easy.   
  
But Glass Joe, as he drank his coffee, his hair fallen over the side of his face, which was swollen and with differing degrees of colors other than the natural pale white he should have. The brown contrasting greatly with the darker still colors, couldn’t help but smile. He knew just who to ask for help. Why the great ol’Doc Louis himself.   
  
He had trained the elf, the little kid who had beaten him to a pulp. And rumor on the street was that he needed that money for his addiction. Addiction to chocolate bars...but still, addiction. He might own a bike, and a pink jacket, but Doc didn’t have half the money or fame he used to have. His big shot, which ironically was named “Little”, Petit Mac, or something of some sort, had failed to Sandman. Now he would need another proteegé. 

 

He stood up, making sure to leave the dollars on the table, as Marie would appreciate them. In front of him, the backdrop of the Arch of Triumph, that covered the entirety of the wall behind the counter. He didn’t think he had ever gotten up so quickly, even on the ring.   
  
He was told to lose, but no more, He knew himself to be capable of doing this.   
  
Building his victory, as fast as a human Tower.   
  
It was time.

 


End file.
